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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.